


Let's Go Home

by Cindereliot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, John Has Feelings, John Has a Daughter, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mary Dies, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, POV Alternating, Parent John Watson, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 20:03:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 11,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7905796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cindereliot/pseuds/Cindereliot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Mary's death, John and his daughter have moved back to Baker Street.  Three years later, John has (finally) come to the realization that he just may be in love with one Sherlock Holmes.  Before he can act on it, he and Sherlock must solve a case.  John's not worried.  He has all the time in the world to tell his friend the truth.  Doesn't he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in which John sees something unexpected and heartwarming

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at Sherlock fanfiction, so I apologize if they act a bit out of character. I promise, I'll get better. Hope you enjoy! Any comments are appreciated!

"Mrs Hudson!” John called out as he struggled to close the door of the flat with his arms full of bags.  He had stopped to pick some things up from the shops for his landlady as a thank you for watching his daughter.  Not that Mrs Hudson expected a thank you.  She loved spending time with Nell, to the point of practically shoving John out the door so she would have the opportunity to watch the little girl.

“Mrs Hudson?” John called again.

“Oh, is that you, John dear?” Mrs Hudson opened the door to her flat and peered out into the hallway.  She smiled when she saw him and moved aside so he could bring the bags into the kitchen.

“I hope those aren’t all for me, dear.  You have Nell and Sherlock to look after.  You don’t need to be spending any extra on me.”

John snorted.  “Sherlock can look after himself.  It wasn’t any trouble, Mrs Hudson.  I had to go to the shops anyway.  You watch Nell so often for me that you can’t have time to go shopping for yourself.”  John set one of the bags on the counter.  “Speaking of my daughter, where is she?”

“She insisted on going upstairs to wait for you.”

“Alone?” John frowned.  Nell was only a few weeks away from being four.  Surely Mrs Hudson wouldn’t have sent her up by herself.

“Of course not!  Sherlock came home.  He’s up there with her.”

John smiled tightly at his landlady.  Sherlock was hardly adequate supervision.  Not that he would allow anything to happen to Nell.  Sherlock had been protective of her since the day she was born, even more so after Mary had died.  No, he knew Nell would be safe.  He just wasn’t sure the flat would be in one piece.  “How long has he been home?”

Mrs Hudson glanced at her watch.  “Almost three hours.”

Right.  Two toddlers alone in the flat for three hours.  John was definitely worried about what he was about to walk into.

“Thank you for watching Nell” John said as he made to leave Mrs Hudson’s flat.

“Any time, John dear.  She’s a lovely girl.”

John smiled and exited the flat.  He walked up the stairs and paused outside the closed door to the sitting room.  He held is breath and listened.  He wasn’t sure what he was listening for.  Breaking glass.  An explosion.  Suspicious laughter.  The telltale signs of destruction.

 The flat was silent.  Somehow, that was worse.

John took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and pushed the door open.  When he opened his eyes, he was mildly surprised to find the flat intact.  Everything seemed to be in its rightful place.  John took a tentative step into the sitting room and started to call out to Sherlock.

The words died in his throat when his eyes fell on the sofa.  Sherlock was lying across the length of it in his usual fashion.  What was unusual was that he was fast asleep.  Even more unusual was the tiny blond human sleeping snuggled against the detective’s side.

John grinned.  Never in his life did he think that he would see Sherlock Holmes taking a nap with his daughter.  He tiptoed into the kitchen and silently put away the shopping.

When everything was put away, he stood in the doorway and looked at the pair on the sofa.  He knew he should wake them up.  Sherlock would be in pain later if he continued sleeping in that position.  Nell would sleep better in an actual bed.  Still, there was something touching and, dare he say it, _domestic_ about the two of them napping together.

The doctor in him won.  

John sighed.  He crossed the room and leaned over their sleeping forms.  He gently brushed a golden curl away from Nell’s face and bent further to kiss her temple.  As he pulled away, Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open.

“John?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep.

John gave him a small smile.  “Hey,” he whispered.  “Move your arm so I can get Nell up to bed.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed in confusion.  He glanced down at his chest.  “Eleanor?” He lifted his arm from where it was wrapped around the small child.

“Thanks.” John picked Nell up.  She immediately tucked her face into her father’s neck and snuggled closer.  He turned and carried her upstairs to the bedroom.


	2. in which Sherlock panics

Sherlock sat up as soon as John was out of the room.  He blinked in confusion.  How had he ended up asleep on the sofa with Eleanor?  He tried to remember the events of the evening.

_He had been working a case.  Easy.  Boring.  Hardly a four.  Not worth the trouble of leaving the flat.  Still, he had gone.  John would be working all day.  Mrs Hudson was watching Eleanor.  His experiments would need to wait until the evening before he could continue them.  So he had gone when Lestrade called._

_He returned home to 221B in the late afternoon.  John was still working.  Eleanor was still with Mrs Hudson.  His experiments, however, were ready to be examined.  Sherlock had hurried up the stairs and settled in front of his microscope._

_It wasn’t long before he heard the padding of tiny Watson feet across the sitting room floor.  Eleanor.  He heard her hesitate in the kitchen doorway.  He could tell she was debating whether or not to continue into the room.  She knew he was busy.  She knew better than to disturb Sherlock when he was busy.  Still, he had a soft spot for her._ Sentiment, _he thought bitterly._

_“Do make up your mind, Lady Eleanor.” he said without taking his eyes away from the microscope._

_Tiny feet made their way toward the kitchen table.  The chair to the right of Sherlock was pulled away and Eleanor climbed into it.  When the room was once again silent, Sherlock looked up.  Eleanor was staring at him, her large blue eyes—John’s eyes—were sad._

_“What can I do for you, Lady Eleanor?”_

_“Bored.” she stated, imitating the detective.  John wouldn’t like that.  At all._

_Sherlock frowned.  She was lying.  She wasn’t bored.  Her eyes were sad.  John had been gone longer than his normal work day.  Conclusion: Eleanor was missing her father.  Sherlock gave her a small smile.  He knew what that felt like._

_He pushed his chair away from the table.  “Hot chocolate?”_

_His suggestion was rewarded with a bright smile.  “Oh yes, please!”_

_Sherlock nodded and began to prepare the hot beverage.  “Marshmallows?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.  She would want exactly seven._

_“Yes, please.  Seven.”_

_“Of course.”_

_The pair of them had sat at the table, sipping hot chocolate, eating dinner, and waiting for John to return home.  He was still absent by the time their cups and plates were empty._

_“Will you read me a book, Sherly?” Eleanor asked._

_Sherlock knew he would never allow anyone else to call him such a ridiculous nickname.  He preferred proper names.  He was the only person who called Eleanor by her given name rather than Nell.  He was the only one she allowed to call her Eleanor.  He couldn’t bring himself to mind when she called him Sherly.  “As you wish, Lady Eleanor.”_

_They sat on the sofa and Sherlock read story after story.  Finally, he had glanced down and realized Eleanor had fallen asleep.  The next thing he knew, John was leaning over him, trying to pick Eleanor up._

Sherlock rubbed his hands over his face.  He hadn’t intended to fall asleep.  He had only wanted to stay still enough for Eleanor to sleep peacefully.  He stood and made his way to the kitchen.  John would want tea when he came back downstairs.  He put the kettle on.

Sherlock listened to John’s footsteps as he walked slowly down the stairs.  He had clearly had a stressful day.  John started toward the kitchen, but Sherlock stopped him.

“I’ll get the tea, John.  Sit.”

John obeyed without question and minutes later, Sherlock handed him his tea and sat in his own chair.  They shared a comfortable silence for several long moments until, finally, John spoke.

“This arrangement isn’t going to work much longer.”

Sherlock frowned.  “What arrangement?”  He looked around the room.  Was John displeased with the furniture arrangement?  Unlikely.  The furniture had been like that since the beginning.

“This living arrangement.”

Sherlock froze, his cup halfway to his mouth.  He felt like he had been punched in the stomach.

“What’s wrong with our living arrangement?” he forced himself to ask.

“There are only two bedrooms.  It was fine when Nell was a baby.  She’s getting older now.  She needs her own room.”  John sighed.  “I should start looking for a place where she can have that.”

Sherlock was panicking.  John was leaving.  Eleanor was leaving.  He didn’t want that.  There had to be some other solution.  Something he could say to make them stay.


	3. in which John tries to stop Sherlock from panicking

John glanced up when Sherlock remained silent.  The look on the detective’s face made him instantly regret suggesting that he needed to look for a new flat.  Now Sherlock thought that he _wanted_ to leave.  That wasn’t the case at all.  John would do anything to stay at 221B with Sherlock.  There just wasn’t enough space anymore.  He wished there was a third bedroom.  Or that he could share the downstairs room with Sherlock.  Perhaps if they were dating…

_Wait, what?  Where did that come from?_   John’s thoughts shocked him.  He shook his head slightly to clear it.

“Sherlock—” he started, but when he met Sherlock’s eyes, a lump in his throat prevented him from continuing.  He cleared his throat and tried again.  “Sherlock, it’s not that I want to leave.”  He paused again, unsure of what to say.  He looked down at his hands.

“Then don’t.  You can move into my room.”

John’s head snapped up.  Had he actually heard those words correctly?  Had Sherlock seriously just suggested that John move into his bedroom?  Was he serious?  More importantly, did John want him to be serious?

The panicked look on Sherlock’s face disappeared instantly behind his usual blank mask.  “I simply mean that I rarely sleep anyway.  My bedroom often goes unused.  If you are concerned that Eleanor needs her own space, it is only logical that you take my room.”

John pushed down the stab of disappointment he felt at Sherlock’s words.  “What about you, then?  Where will you sleep?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “It hardly matters.”

“It matters, Sherlock.”

“I’ll sleep while you’re working.”

“So we’ll share the room?”

Sherlock shrugged again and looked away, a faint pink blush tinting his cheeks.

“Sherlock, my toddler is better at sharing than you are.”

The detective glanced at John and muttered with a smirk, “She’s been giving me lessons.”

John chuckled.  “I’m being serious, Sherlock.  I don’t want to leave, but I don’t want to push you out of your room.”

“You’re not pushing me anywhere, John!” He stood and began pacing the room.

“It certainly feels like I am.”

“I am offering you a perfectly reasonable solution to your problem.”

“It’s not perfectly reasonable, Sherlock!” John exclaimed.

Sherlock stared petulantly out the window and refused to respond.  John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Okay, alright.  We’ll figure something out.  It’s not an immediate problem.  We’ll work something out soon.”


	4. in which Sherlock convinces John to bring his toddler to a crime scene

The next day, Sherlock sprawled across his bed.  His gaze swept over the room as the thought about his reaction to John’s suggestion that he and Eleanor leave Baker Street.  Why had he panicked?  Of course he didn’t want John to leave.  It was convenient to have him there when a case came up.

It was more than that and Sherlock knew it.  He was struggling to understand _why_.

His text alert shook him from his thoughts.  He glanced at the screen.  Lestrade.

He walked out to the sitting room where John was reading the newspaper.  “Come on, John.  It appears we have a case.  A series of burglaries seem to have escalated to murder.”

“That’s fascinating, Sherlock, but I can’t go.  Mrs Hudson is out.  I can’t go anywhere until she’s back to watch Nell.”

Sherlock frowned.  “Lestrade needs us there now.  Bring Eleanor along.”

“I can’t bring my three-year-old to look at a murder victim!”

“Why not?”

“It’s bad parenting!”

Sherlock sighed heavily.  “I’m not suggesting we allow her to see the body.  Anderson is there.  He finds Eleanor charming.  He’ll entertain her while we inspect the scene.  It will keep her busy and he’ll be out of the way.”

“Sherlock.”

“Come on, John.  Eleanor will be fine.  I need you there.”

After a beat of silence, John sighed.  “Oh all right.  You win.”

Sherlock grinned broadly.  “Excellent.”  He headed to the hallway and John followed close behind muttering something about being the worst parent in England.

Sherlock slipped his coat on and called up the stairs, “Lady Eleanor?  Your father and I have a case.  Would you like to come along?”

The question was immediately followed by the pitter patter of little feet running down the stairs.  When Eleanor was almost at the landing, she launched her small body off the steps and into Sherlock’s waiting arms.  The detective caught her with ease and spun around in a circle.

“Can I go?  Really?”  Eleanor asked, her eyes wide and pleading.  She clung tightly to Sherlock’s arms, refusing to let him put her down.

Sherlock smiled fondly at her.  He never imagined that a child—John’s child—would want to be in his arms.  He was surprised to find that he liked it.

“Yes, Nell, you can come along if you promise to be good.”  John said as he grabbed her jacked from the hook by the door.

“I'll be good!” she promised and loosened her grip on Sherlock so John could help her into the coat.  Once it was on, she wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s neck and held on tight.

He grinned at her and turned to walk down the steps to the front door.  John followed close behind.


	5. in which John realizes something that should have been obvious

John followed as Sherlock led the way to the crime scene.  Nell was still in his arms and every few steps she asked him a question.  Much to John’s surprise, Sherlock answered every single one without a hint of annoyance.

“Why are we going this way?” Nell asked as the trio cut through an alley.

“It’s the fastest route.” Sherlock stated.

“Can we go to the park after?”

“If your father says it’s alright.”

“The park would be lovely.” John chimed in.

“Sherly?”

“Yes, Eleanor?”

“Why aren’t you wearing your hat?”

John coughed to cover his laughter.  The glare Sherlock shot him proved that his attempt was unsuccessful.

“I hate that hat.” Sherlock sighed.

“I like it.” Nell smiled.

Sherlock paused and studied her face for signs that she was mocking him.  After a moment, he looked away and continued walking.  “I’ll wear it on your birthday.”

John was shocked.  Not only was Sherlock answering questions that even John found tedious, but he had also promised Nell that he would wear the deerstalker hat on her birthday.  He never imagined Sherlock would voluntarily make himself uncomfortable to make a child happy.

John looked over at his best friend.  Nell was still asking a stream of questions.  Sherlock continued to answer every single one.  It was absolutely adorable.

John blinked.  Did he seriously just use the word “adorable” to describe Sherlock Holmes?  This was new.  Sure, he had thought many an inappropriate thought about his flatmate over the years.  Sherlock was effortlessly beautiful.  It was impossible to keep his thoughts totally PG when it came to the detective.  He tried, of course.  He often had to remind himself that he was absolutely, positively, 100% not gay. 

Even though sometimes he wanted nothing more than to run his thumbs over those infuriatingly sharp cheekbones and kiss the detective senseless.

Right then.

Maybe not absolutely, positively, 100% not gay after all.

That wasn’t exactly true.  John wasn’t gay.  He wasn’t attracted to _men_.  He didn’t like _men_ in that way.  He was attracted to _Sherlock_.  He liked _Sherlock_ in that way.  He _loved_ Sherlock.  Full stop.

The realization hit him like a lorry.  He stumbled to a stop.  He was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

“Daddy?” Nell called from her perch in Sherlock’s arms.  Sherlock turned around and frowned at John in confusion.

John blinked.  He hadn’t meant to fall behind.  He hurried to catch up.  When he reached Sherlock’s side, Nell held her hands out to him.  Somehow she knew the mood had shifted and desired the comfort only her her father’s arms could give.

“Are you alright, John?” Sherlock asked, still frowning at him.

John smiled absently at him.  “I’m fine.”

Sherlock looked as if was was going to press the issue, but decided against it and the three continued to the crime scene.


	6. in which Sherlock has unpleasant thoughts

The rest of the walk to the crime scene passed by in silence.  Sherlock was concerned about John.  Why had he stopped back in the alley?  What was the look Sherlock had seen on his face before it was hidden behind Eleanor?  Was he in pain?

Sherlock glanced at John.  He didn’t appear to be in pain.  He looked happy.  More than happy, really.  John Watson looked … besotted.

What could have happened on the walk from Baker Street to put that expression on John’s face?

Perhaps John had seen some woman on the street and experienced a “love at first sight” moment?  Plausible.  John was a romantic.  Sherlock hadn’t noticed any particularly attractive women on the walk, but he had been focused on Eleanor.

_So, John might be in love._   He had known that would happen eventually.  John would find a nice woman and he would date her for awhile.  Eleanor would like her.  John would marry her and the two of them would move out of Baker Street.  Sherlock would be alone.  Again.

Not that he cared.  

Sherlock absolutely did not care.

He spared another glance at John.  If only he could tell what his friend was thinking.  He may be able to if only he could study the man’s face.  Unfortunately, Eleanor was still blocking his view.

Not that he cared.

Because he definitely did not.

Sherlock could see yellow tape in the distance.  They were nearing the crime scene.  Deductions about John would have to wait.

The game was on.


	7. in which John regrets bringing his toddler to a crime scene

“They look angry.” John muttered to Sherlock as they approached the crime scene.

“There was a murder, John.  How would you prefer them to look?”

“Sherlock.  You know that isn’t the issue.”  John shot a glare at his friend.  He never should have let Sherlock convince him to bring Nell along.

“I’ll handle it, John.”

John closed his eyes.  “Because _that’s_ going to make it better.” 

Sherlock looked wounded, but quickly wiped the expression from his face as they approached Lestrade.

“Sherlock.  John.”  Lestrade greeted them and looked pointedly at the child in John’s arms.  “Nell.  I didn’t realize you were coming along today.”

Nell smiled at the detective inspector.  “Good afternoon.  Daddy and Sherly said I could come to work with them.”

“Did they now?” Lestrade ruffled Nell’s curls.

“I’m sorry about this, Greg.  Mrs Hudson was out and Sherlock said it was urgent.  I’m not going to take her in.”

As John was explaining the situation, Anderson approached.  He smiled when he realized Nell was with them.  For some reason, he had taken to John’s daughter.  Not that it was surprising.  Everyone loved Nell.  Still, this was _Anderson_.  He asked after her every time he saw either John or Sherlock.  He’d even watched her for John a few times when no one else was available.

“Well, hello there, Miss Watson.”  Anderson grinned broadly.  “How are you today?”

She returned his grin.  “Very well, thank you.”

John set Nell down and looked at Anderson.  “Would you mind looking after her while we take a look inside?”

“Not at all.” Anderson knelt down so he was eye level with Nell.  She tilted her head and studied his face.

“Tell me something, John.  How did you manage to teach your daughter such perfect manners while living with Sherly over there?” Lestrade asked with a smirk.

Sherlock glared.  “Only Eleanor calls me that.”

Lestrade put his hands up in surrender and laughed.  “Won’t happen again.  Come on, let’s go.”

As they started to walk away, they were stopped by Nell’s voice.  

“How’s your new puppy?”

“My what?” came Anderson’s shocked reply.

John, Sherlock, and Lestrade turned and stared.

“Your puppy.  How is she?”  Nell asked again with a polite smile.

“Oi, you got a dog, Anderson?” Lestrade asked.

Anderson’s confused eyes looked from Nell to Lestrade to John before finally resting on Sherlock.  The detective was trying, unsuccessfully, to hide a smirk.  “Yeah, I brought her home yesterday.”  He squinted suspiciously at Sherlock.  “Did you tell her?”

“I didn’t say a word.”

Lestrade, John, and Sherlock continued toward the building.  As they reached the door, Sherlock spoke.  “It’s a shame Eleanor won’t be joining us at the crime scene.  She’s obviously more observant than most of your team and she isn’t even four.”

Lestrade groaned.  “Just what we needed.  A bloody mini-Sherlock.”


	8. in which Sherlock receives a goodnight kiss

That evening was quiet.  John cleaned the kitchen, careful to avoid the various experiments Sherlock had going.  Eleanor was curled up in John’s chair with her favorite stuffed toy hedgehog.  Sherlock sat across from her in his own chair.  He thought about what they had found at the crime scene.

The cause of death was obvious.  Even Anderson wouldn’t have been able to miss it.  Seven stab wounds to the chest.  The question was what made this victim different from the others.  Why did this one have to die?  He was missing something.

A light touch on his knee brought him out of his thoughts.  He blinked.  Eleanor was standing before him.  He leaned back in surprise and she took the opportunity to climb onto his lap.

“Nell, don’t bother Sherlock.  He’s thinking.” John scolded gently from the kitchen doorway.

Sherlock glanced up at his friend.  “It’s fine, John.  She’s not bothering me.”  He wrapped his arms around her to further illustrate his point.

“You’re sure?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock rested his cheek on the top of Eleanor’s head.  After a moment he asked, “Lady Eleanor, would you like some warm milk before bed?”

She nodded and Sherlock started to get up.  John stopped him.  “I’ll get it.”

Sherlock and Eleanor settled back on Sherlock’s chair.  He watched John in the kitchen.  He knew that he should be thinking about the case.  There was a murderer out there.  He should be annoyed that Eleanor had distracted him.  Even so, he couldn’t bear the thought of asking her to leave her perch on his lap.  If he was being perfectly honest with himself, he was quite fond of the little girl.  He loved her, even.  A warmth bloomed in his chest each time she sought him out.

John brought warm milk for Eleanor and tea for him and Sherlock.  They sipped their beverages in comfortable silence.  Sherlock attempted to turn his thoughts back to the case, but they kept drifting to the domestic scene before him.  John was getting more serious about looking for a new place to live.  Each time he mentioned it, Sherlock panicked.  He wanted these cozy evenings by the fire.  There had to be _something_ he could do to make them stay.

Sherlock sighed quietly.  He needed to focus on the case.  He would find a solution to make John and Eleanor stay at Baker Street once the murderer had been caught.

“Come on, Nell.  It’s time for bed.”  John said, taking the empty mug out of his daughter’s small hands.

Eleanor nodded sleepily and slid off of Sherlock’s lap.

“Goodnight, Lady Eleanor.” Sherlock offered her a small smile.

“Goodnight, Sherly.” She leaned in and placed a kiss on his cheek.  A second later, she turned and followed John upstairs.  Sherlock watched her go.  He brought his fingertips up to touch his cheek where it was still warm from her kiss.  She regularly kissed John and Mrs Hudson goodnight.  She had never kissed Sherlock though.

He sat frozen until he heard John making his way back down the stairs.  He stood and paced around the sitting room, unsure what to do with himself.  As John entered the room, Sherlock settled on throwing himself down on the sofa.


	9. in which John makes a decision

John stared at the pages of his book without seeing the words.  He had been attempting to read the same page for the better part of on hour, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the face Sherlock had made when Nell kissed him goodnight.  He had been mildly surprised that Nell had kissed the detective.  She may have only been three, but she was excellent at reading people.  She was the only person, that John was aware of, who was able to read Sherlock with perfect accuracy.

At least, she had been until recently.  She had been seeking physical affection from the detective more frequently.  John kept expecting Sherlock to stiffen or push her away, but so far he had gracefully accepted her attention.  He had even welcomed it.  If John had interrupted Sherlock while he was in his mind palace, he would have been met with, at worst, hostility, and at best, annoyance.  Nell had been allowed onto his lap and reward with cuddles.

 _Sherlock cuddles?_   John didn’t know how to process that information.  He was trying—failing—not to be jealous of his three-year-old who seemed to be the only one who would ever receive affection from the normally aloof detective.

Maybe that wasn’t true.  Nell was clever.  She was observant.  She knew what people were feeling and acted accordingly.  Perhaps she saw something change in Sherlock.  Maybe he was more open to affection.

John thought back to the look on Sherlock’s face when Nell kissed his cheek.  He had been shocked.  That was obvious, even to John.  However, he had also looked almost…pleased.  John’s heart melted at the thought.  Maybe Sherlock Holmes was starting to understand sentiment after all.  Maybe if John kissed him, Sherlock would accept it rather than pushing him away.

 _Whoa.  Don’t go down that road, Watson.  Bit not good, that._   John shook his head and shot a quick glance at Sherlock.  He was lying across the sofa, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.  He was clearly deep in thought.  John allowed his gaze to linger and felt a smile tug at his lips.  He did nothing to stop it.

 _Damn._ The man was beautiful.  Mad and infuriating, yes, but also brilliant and gifted and bloody gorgeous.  What was he going to do?  Just tell him?  Walk down to the kitchen one morning and just say, “Pass the milk, would you Sherlock?  Oh, and I love you.”  That wouldn’t end well.

He could just kiss him.  Just lean over one night and do it, like it was something they did all the time.  It might work, but there was no way John would actually do it.  He would mean to and then find some reason not to go through with it.  No, he needed to do something that he couldn’t back out of.

He could get him a gift.  Christmas was coming up in a few months.  He could get Sherlock something that was obviously more than what one friend would get another.  That would depend on Sherlock being able to understand the sentiment.  He may be a genius, but emotions definitely were not his area.

John leaned back in his chair and looked around the room, searching for inspiration.  His eyes rested on the coffee table.  There was an envelope addressed to John.  It was a letter from Sherlock’s mum.

A letter.

A slow grin spread across John’s face.  A letter could work.  He would have time to make sure the words were perfect.  He wouldn’t have to watch Sherlock read it.  This would be good for the both of them.  John could avoid the anxiety and potential embarrassment.  Sherlock would have time to process his feelings—if he had any to process.  John could write the letter and leave it propped against Sherlock’s microscope where the detective couldn’t miss it.  He would take Nell on a holiday to the country.  Just for a few days.  That would give Sherlock space and John would be unable to destroy the letter before his friend could read it.

Yes, a letter just might work.

“John, do stop thinking.  It’s unbearable.”

John snapped out of his thoughts and stared at the sofa.  Sherlock was looking at him with an amused smirk.  John suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.  He knew this was Sherlock’s equivalent of friendly teasing. 

John cleared his throat.  “Apologies.  I'm going up to bed.  I hope my thinking won’t bother you all the way up there.”  John stood and stretched.

“You don’t have to.” Sherlock said quietly.

Something about the detective’s voice made John turn back to him.  Sherlock looked worried.  John frowned.  “Sherlock?”

Sherlock sat up, his mask back in place.  He didn’t meet John’s eyes.  “I only mean that you do not need to leave the room on my account.  It was not my intention to offend you.”

John smiled.  “Sherlock, I know.  I was joking.  I am going up to bed though.  Some of us actually need sleep.”

Sherlock finally met John’s gaze and returned his smile.  “Sleeping slows me down.”

“Yes, yes.  I know.” John chuckled.  “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.”


	10. in which Sherlock makes deductions because of John

Sherlock had been thinking about the crime scene all day.  It was late afternoon and he had yet to make any real progress.  John had sent Eleanor down to bake biscuits with Mrs Hudson in hopes that the quiet flat would help Sherlock think.  It wasn’t working.

Sherlock glared at the photographs of the victim’s home that Lestrade had brought over.  He could tell that something was off.  Why would the suspect suddenly become a murderer after being content with mere theft for months?

_Natural escalation?  Possible._

_Something different about this victim?  Obviously._

_But what?_

_Home when burgled?  Yes, but so were some of the others._

_Fought back?  Yes, but again, so did some the others and they were left alive._

_Location?  Unlikely.  Previous victims burgled in their homes._

He was missing something.  Sherlock growled in frustration.

John looked up from the newspaper.  “Missing something?”

“Yes.  It’s right there, I know it.  I just can’t _see_ it!”  Sherlock tossed the photographs onto the coffee table in disgust and sank back onto the sofa.  He probably would have already solved the case if he hadn’t been so preoccupied with the thought of John and Eleanor leaving.  He needed to snap out of it.  There was work to do.

John folded the paper and got out of his chair to take a closer look at the photographs.  He flipped through the stack and frowned.  “That’s strange.”

“Hm?”

“The latest victim, that was her home she was murdered in?”

“Yes.”

“Had she lived there long?”

“A little more than two years.”

“And she had no personal photographs in her sitting room?  That’s strange.”

“Why is that strange?” Sherlock asked, barely interested.  _Sentiment.  Who cares?_   John continued talking, but Sherlock had already stopped listening.  He looked around their own sitting room.  He looked at the mantle where there were two framed pictures. The first was baby Eleanor, asleep on Sherlock’s chair.  The second was from the previous Christmas.  Mrs Hudson had insisted that John, Sherlock, and Eleanor needed a group picture.  Sherlock would never admit it out loud, but that was his favorite photograph.  The three of them looked happy; like they belonged together.  Like a proper family.

_Family._

_That’s it!_

“They were related!”  Sherlock exclaimed.

John frowned.  “What?”

“They were related, John!” Sherlock was too excited to be irritated about repeating obvious statements.

“How do you figure?”

“Pictures!”  _Yes, of course._ It was all so obvious now, and it was all because of John.  John: his personal conductor of light.  His John.  Sherlock grinned broadly.  He could have kissed John for being so brilliant.

_Kiss John._   His mind froze for a millisecond.  He wanted to kiss John?  That was new information.

Sherlock gave his head a slight shake and pushed the thought from his mind.  He would deal with it later.  There wasn’t time now.

The game was back on.


	11. in which John is angry

John watched several emotions cross Sherlock’s face in the span of only a few seconds.  Finally, he seemed to settle on determination. 

“I’m sorry, I still don’t understand what’s happening.”   _What do pictures have to do with anything?  She didn’t have any pictures…oh._   “Oh!”  Sherlock beamed at John like a proud parent.  The look warmed John’s heart.  “The murder was…in the pictures.”

“Precisely!”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean the murderer is related to the victim.  They could have been friends.  Or dating.”

“Balance of probability, John.” Sherlock moved to the desk and began tapping on his laptop.

John blinked at him for a moment before returning to the paper.  He couldn’t do anything to help at the moment.  Sherlock would let him know when he was needed.

Several minutes had passed when Sherlock stood up abruptly and started to pace.  John looked up and watched him.  The man was so graceful.  He made walking look like dancing.

John thought about the letter he had written early that morning.  He had meant to take him time with it, but once he had started the words had come to him with ease.  He had expected pouring his heart out to be more of a struggle.  It always was when he tried to say the words aloud.  But then, John had always been better with the written word.

He knew the case would likely be over in a day or two.  He had already packed the bags he and Nell would need for their little holiday.  He planned on leaving as soon as the case was wrapped up.  If he put it off any longer, he doubted he would go through with it.  

He needed to tell Sherlock he was taking Nell to the country.  It would be a struggle to convince his friend he couldn’t come along with them.  John opened his mouth to do just that when Sherlock froze, mid-pace.  He turned sharply and grabbed his coat from the hook by the door.  John frowned.  “Where are you going?”

“To see Lestrade.”

“Can’t you just text him?”

“No, this is delicate information.  It must be delivered personally.”

“What can you possibly have to tell him that can’t be texted?” John asked incredulously.

Sherlock shrugged.  “It’s about the case.  I can’t afford for him to misunderstand me.”

“Wait a second.  I’ll go with you.” John put the paper aside and started to get up.

“No.” Sherlock said too quickly, his face horrified.  He quickly smoothed out his expression and backtracked.  “Eleanor is making biscuits.  She would be so disappointed if you weren’t here to try them fresh out of the oven.  Besides, it’s pointless for us both to go.”  Sherlock spun around and hurried out of the flat before John had a chance to respond.

John frowned.  Sherlock was decidedly _not_ going to New Scotland Yard.  He glanced at the detective’s still open laptop.  A sudden burst of anger filled his chest.  He snatched his coat off its hook and shoved his arms in the sleeves.  He hurried down the stairs and knocked lightly on Mrs Hudson’s door before stepping inside.

“Mrs Hudson?  I need to go out.  Would you mind watching Nell until I get back?  I won’t be long.  I just need to collect Sherlock.”

“Of course, dear.  We’ll be just fine here, won’t we Nell?”  

Nell nodded and wiped away a smudge of flour from her cheek.  John leaned down to give his daughter a kiss.

“Thank you” he said and started to leave.

Mrs Hudson followed him to the door.  She looked concerned.  “Sherlock isn’t in trouble again, is he?”

John gave her a tight smile.  “Not yet.”

“Go easy on him, dear.”

He nodded and left the flat.   

_Go easy on him.  Ha!_  

He flagged down a taxi and threw himself inside.  John knew exactly where Sherlock was going, and he was going to kill him for it.


	12. in which Sherlock and his blogger catch a killer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I just glossed over the case. It wasn't the point of the story so I didn't want to spend a lot of time on it.

Sherlock had lied.  He was definitely not going to NSY.  He had discovered who the murderer was.  It was simple, really, once he knew where to look.  More importantly, he knew where the murderer would be going next.  He had sent Lestrade a text, but it was unlikely he would make it in time.  No, Sherlock would have to find him first.

He felt a stab of guilt for lying to John.  It was a necessary lie though.  John had Eleanor to look after.  He was all that she had.  She depended on him.  This situation was far too dangerous.  Sherlock couldn’t allow John to put himself in danger anymore.  Sherlock would be fine on his own.  He had been before John.  He would be again.

Okay, so he hadn’t exactly been _fine_ before John.  But he would be now.  He would find the murderer and apprehend him.  Alone.

For John.

Sherlock got out of the taxi and paid the cabbie.  He was across the street from the next location he knew the thief-turned-murderer would be.  He entered the café and ordered a coffee.  He sat outside with the hot beverage and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long.  Oliver Bloom, the latest victim’s son, turned onto the far end of the street.  He was nervous as he walked toward the building across the street from Sherlock.  As Oliver approached, a black cab pulled up to the café.  John stepped out.

“I swear to God, Sherlock, if you _ever_ leave me behind like that again, I will bloody murder you!” John yelled as the taxi drove away.

Sherlock didn’t have time to respond.  Oliver had heard the outburst.  He looked at the pair, realization dawning on his features.  He hesitated for a split second before turning and sprinting in the opposite direction.

“After him, John!” Sherlock exclaimed.

John threw a confused look over his shoulder.  Instantly, he understood what had happened.  Instead of arguing, he followed right behind Sherlock.  This was important.  They needed to catch the killer.  They could have their domestic later.

The two of them chased Oliver down the street until he ducked down an alley.  John and Sherlock split up to box him in.  Sherlock, being the faster of the two, sprinted to reach the far end before Oliver could escape.  When he came around the corner into the alley, he saw John and Oliver engaged in fisticuffs.  Oliver slammed his fist into John’s side causing the blogger to cry out in pain.

John’s cry spurred Sherlock to action.  He hurried to his friend’s aid, stopping only to pick up an empty bottle from the ground.  He smashed the bottle over Oliver’s head.  The killer sank to the ground, out cold.  John remained hunched over, his hands holding the spot he had been punched.  Sherlock glanced down at the man on the ground and noticed a silver glint in his hand.  On closer inspection, he realized it was a blade.  A blade covered in blood.

_Blood?_

_My blood?  No._

_Oliver’s blood?  Unlikely._

_John’s blood?  …_

Sherlock turned to his friend.  John was sinking to his knees, his hands—still clutching his side—were covered in blood. 

John hadn’t been punched.  He had been stabbed.


	13. in which John dies

John was going to die.  He was absolutely, positively, 100% sure of that fact.  He was also, surprisingly, calm.  He’d expected to be begging to live or, at the very least, feel sad.  Instead, he felt at peace.  They had caught the murderer.  He had kept Sherlock safe.

He looked up at the detective.  It was obvious that he was starting to break down.  “Sherlock.” John croaked, trying to keep his friend from retreating into his mind.  John needed him there.  He didn’t want to die alone.

It worked.  Suddenly, Sherlock was at John’s side, helping him lie on the ground.  He was ripping off his scarf and pressing it firmly to John’s side.  He was pulling out his mobile, calling for help.

John watched him do all of this, but everything had a strange, muted quality to it.  Like a dream.  It was as if it was happening to some other John Watson.

Sherlock tossed his phone aside and pressed down on the wound with both hands.  “Help is on the way, John.”

John nodded his head, mostly to make Sherlock feel better.  He knew that there was no way help would arrive in time.  He was going to die.

His mind wandered to the little girl waiting for him with Mrs Hudson.  It had gotten late. She was probably asleep. The image of Nell sleeping peacefully, expecting him to be home when she woke, was enough to finally shock John from his eerie calm.

He needed to get Sherlock’s attention.  He called out to him.

The detective was too panicked to hear his name.  His eyes were focused on the scarlet blood soaking through his scarf.  John placed his hand gently on Sherlock’s arm.  Wide, terrified, silver eyes found calm, blue ones.

“Nell.” John stated.

Sherlock looked at him, confused.

“Sherlock, promise me you’ll look after her.”

“Of course, John.  I’ll make sure she’s alright while they’re patching you up.”

John smiled slightly.  He appreciated the optimism, but now was not the time for it.  He needed a real promise.  He needed to know Nell would be taken care of when he was gone.  He shook his head.  “Always.”

“John?”

“Always.” he repeated.

Sherlock understood what John was asking.  The blood drained out of his already pale face.  He took a shaking breath.  “Always.” he promised.

John relaxed at his words.  Nell was going to be okay.  She wouldn’t have him anymore, but she would have Sherlock.  Sherlock might behave like a child, but he would keep her safe.  For John.  He blinked up at the detective.  The pain he had been feeling was beginning to fade.  He knew that was a bad sign.

It was becoming harder to focus.  He needed to say one more thing before it was too late.  He couldn’t die without telling Sherlock…everything.  He needed his friend to know that he was loved.  John tightened his grip on the detective’s arm.  Sherlock met his gaze and waited for him to speak.

What was he going to say?  He didn’t have the time or strength to get through all the words that had to be said.  Still, Sherlock needed to know.  Then John remembered.  _The letter!_

“Letter…” he forced the word out.  He was losing his grip on his surroundings.  Time was definitely running out.

“Letter?  John, what letter?  I don’t understand!”  Sherlock’s eyes were filled with unshed tears.

John took a breath and tried once more.  “Letter…my room…read it.”

“John?”

“Promise me, Sherlock.”

“I promise.”

John attempted a smile, but was unsure if his lips obeyed the command.  He did what he could.  It would have to be enough.  His grip on Sherlock’s arm slackened and his hand fell to the ground.  His pain was gone.  Sherlock was saying something, but John was no longer able to hear anything.  The world around him began to fade, replaced by brief flashes of his life.

_He was a child, laughing with Harry as they chased one another in the garden._

_He was in Afghanistan, patching up a wounded soldier._

_Sherlock was winking at him the day they met._

_He was running through the streets of London with his mad detective, hot on the heels of some criminal._

_He was standing in the street, watching as Sherlock jumped from the roof of St Bart’s._

_He stood at the alter as Mary walked toward him in her wedding dress._

_He was standing up to hug Sherlock at the wedding reception, fighting back his tears._

_He was holding newborn Nell in his arms for the first time._

_He was breaking down at Mary’s funeral while Sherlock stood at his side, silently supporting him._

_Sherlock’s shocked but pleased expression just after Nell placed a goodnight kiss on his cheek._

Then everything went black.


	14. in which Sherlock is numb

John was going to die.  Sherlock was panicking.  John couldn’t die.  Sherlock needed him.  There had to be more that he could do, but what?  John was the doctor.  Sherlock didn’t know how to save his life.  He had called for help ages ago.  Where were they?  John’s hand slipped off of his arm and an invisible fist clenched Sherlock’s heart.

“John?  John!  You need to stay with me.  Help is on the way, John.  They’re almost here.  You just need to stay with me.  John!”  Sherlock was yelling.  He didn’t care.  He needed John to hear him.  He needed John to stay.

“John!” his voice broke.  “Don’t leave me, John.  I-I need you.”

Sirens were approaching.  Help was there.  Sherlock was terrified that it was already too late.  John’s pulse was weak.  It didn’t look good.

“John.  John.  John.  John.” Sherlock repeated his name as if the simple act could keep his friend alive.  Tears fell freely down the detective’s cheeks.  He couldn’t bring himself to care.  He only cared about John.

The next moments passed by without Sherlock comprehending them.  One second he was holding his scarf over the wound on John’s side.  The next, he was standing and John was being loaded into an ambulance.  Mycroft’s hand on his shoulder brought Sherlock to the present.

_Mycroft?  When did he get here?_   Sherlock frowned slightly and made to walk toward the ambulance.

Mycroft stopped him.  “Sherlock, you need to go back to Baker Street.  You need to change clothes first.”

Sherlock struggled against his brother’s hold before finally taking in his own appearance.  He was covered in blood.  _John’s blood._ He stopped struggling.

“Come.” Mycroft ordered and gently led Sherlock to the waiting car.

Sherlock went without a word.  He let his brother take him home and lead him up the stairs to his flat.  He let Mycroft strip off his blood caked clothes and place him under the warm spray of the shower.

“Get cleaned up.  I’ll get your clothes.”

Sherlock stood under the hot water and stared at the wall, not really seeing anything.  John was dying and Sherlock was at their home.  Eleanor was downstairs with Mrs Hudson, hopefully asleep and unaware of her father’s condition.  If she was lucky, she would get one more night of peace before her world fell apart.  Sherlock wished he had the same luxury.

_Eleanor._

Why had John wanted Sherlock to promise to look after her?  Of course he would look after her.  He would do that even if John was alive and well.  He had been doing that, in his own way, since she was conceived.  He certainly wasn’t going to stop when she needed him the most.

Speaking of promises Sherlock had made to John, hadn’t there been something else?  John had asked Sherlock to do something else.  There was something he was supposed to read.  _A letter!_

The memory of John’s demand spurred Sherlock to action.  He had something he needed to do.  Something _John_ needed him to do.  He scrubbed the blood from his body and leapt out of the bath.  He toweled his body dry and roughly pulled on the clothes Mycroft had left for him.  The second he was dressed, Sherlock ran up the stairs to John’s bedroom.

He threw the door open and saw two packed bags at the foot of John’s bed.  _Bags?  Is John going somewhere?_ he wondered, forgetting for a moment what had happened.  He started to call out to his friend.  Then he remembered.  It felt like being punched in the stomach.  Sherlock held onto the doorframe and took several deep, steadying breaths.  He glanced at the bags again and noticed something resting on top of one.  An envelope.

Sherlock walked closer.  His name was written on the front in John’s handwriting.  This had to be the letter his friend was referring to.  He grabbed it and headed out of the room.  He would read it, but first he needed to get to John.

He hurried down the stairs.  When he reached the bottom, he saw Mycroft speaking to Mrs Hudson just outside her flat.  He couldn’t hear what his brother was saying, but the sad look on Mrs Hudson’s face made the content of the words obvious.

Sherlock cleared his throat.  “Eleanor?”

“She’s inside, asleep on the sofa.  I’ll look after her tonight.  Go be with—” she couldn’t finish her sentence.  Sherlock was glad.  He couldn't bear to hear his friend's name spoken with such sadness, as if he were already dead.

He walked past Mycroft and Mrs Hudson and into the flat.  He needed to see Eleanor.  He knew she was fine, but he needed to see it.  He wanted to be reassured that part of John was still whole and perfect and alive.

Eleanor was sleeping on the sofa, just as Mrs Hudson had said.  She was curled into a ball, a small smile on her lips.  She was happy; peaceful.  Sherlock felt a pain in his chest when he thought of how her life would change when she woke.

_No._   He was not going to allow himself to think like that.  John would get through this.  He had to.

Sherlock knelt beside the sofa and brushed the fine, blond curls away from Eleanor’s forehead as he had witnessed John do on multiple occasions.  He hesitated, but then leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on her temple.

“Don’t worry, Lady Eleanor.  Everything is going to be alright.”


	15. in which Sherlock has feelings

Mycroft sat beside Sherlock at the hospital.  John was still in surgery.  No one said it, but Sherlock could tell the doctors didn’t expect him to live.  It would take a miracle.  

The Holmes brothers sat in silence.  Mycroft wished he could say something—anything—to ease his baby brother’s worry, but he knew the only thing that could help was John’s survival.  Even his colossal power could do nothing about that.

Sherlock stared at his hands.  _It should be me on that table, not John.  Never John._ John was humble and funny and surprising and good and _loved_.  Sherlock was none of those things.  John had Eleanor to raise.  Sherlock had no one counting on him.

_What is Eleanor going to think?  She’s going to know it was my fault.  John shouldn’t have even been there.  She’s going to resent me.  And yet…_   “John asked me to look after her.” he said aloud.

“Pardon?” Mycroft looked at his brother.

“John.  When he got…hurt.  He asked me to take care of Eleanor.”  He wasn’t sure why he was telling Mycroft, but he felt he needed to say it to _someone_.  It didn’t feel real.  None of it did.

“Obviously.”

Sherlock looked sharply at his brother.  “What is that supposed to mean?”

Mycroft’s eyes were soft.  He spoke as if to a small child.  “Sherlock, two years ago, John changed his will.  He named you Eleanor’s legal guardian in the event of his...demise.”  Sherlock winced slightly at his brother’s choice of words.  Mycroft hesitated briefly before asking, “He didn’t tell you?”

“Why would he do that?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft frowned.  “Why would he tell you?  That seems fairly obvious, brother mine.”

Sherlock met his brother’s gaze.  “Why would he—” his voice broke.  He cleared his throat and tried again.  “Why would he pick _me_ , of all people, to look after her?” 

Mycroft smiled sadly.  “Love, little brother.”

Sherlock frowned.  _Love?  Whose love?  John’s love for Eleanor?  Obviously John loves his daughter, but it has little to do with me.  John’s love for me?  Does John love me?  Even if he does, it hardly makes me fit to raise his child.  Eleanor’s love for me?  Does_ Eleanor _love me?  She must if John is willing to make me her guardian._

Sherlock blinked and realized that Mycroft was staring at him, an odd expression on his face.

“You love them.” Mycroft stated.

“What?”

“John and Eleanor.  You love them both.”

“Of course.  John is my best friend and Eleanor is his daughter.”

“No, Sherlock.  You love them much more than that.”  The brothers relapsed into silence for several long minutes until Mycroft stood.  “I’m needed elsewhere.”

“So leave.”

He hesitated.  “If you need me…” The rest of the sentence was left unspoken.

Sherlock looked up.  For a moment, he considered making a sarcastic remark.  Instead, he simply nodded.  Mycroft returned the nod and exited the room.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and considered his brother’s words.  Did he love John and Eleanor?  Obviously.  They were the two most important people in his life.  Sherlock’s best friend and his daughter.  _Is it more than that?_

He thought about the irrational jealousy he had always felt when John was dating someone.  He thought about the pain in his chest he felt when John married Mary.  He thought about the icy hand that wrapped around his heart every time John talked about finding a new place to live.  He thought about the crippling fear he had felt since John was injured.

All those times he thought he was just worried about losing his best friend; his _only_ friend.  Only now, when it was probably too late to matter, did he realize it was so much more than that.  It always had been.  He was in love with John Watson.  He had been in love with him for years without ever realizing it.

And Eleanor.  He loved her too.  Not only because she was John’s daughter.  He loved her like she was his own daughter too.  He was struck by the sheer intensity of his desire to be a father figure to her.

_If John fails to pull through this, you just may get your wish,_ whispered a horrible voice in the back of his mind.

And then Sherlock Holmes was sobbing.


	16. in which Sherlock remembers John's letter

Hours later, John was finally out of surgery.  He had survived, but barely.  The doctors were unsure if he would regain consciousness.  Sherlock had been prepared to go to any lengths necessary to be allowed to stay by his friend’s side.  He couldn’t leave.  There was no way he was going to sit back at Baker Street while John was in hospital, dying.  He wouldn’t let John die alone.

As it turned out, he didn’t have to fight to stay.  Mycroft had arranged everything before leaving, like a proper big brother.  Sherlock made a mental note to be kinder to him, at least for a month or so.  Perhaps longer if John survived.

Sherlock sank heavily into the visitor’s chair in John’s room.  It was uncomfortable, but he didn’t notice.  John was there.  John was—at least for the moment—alive.  He studied his friend’s sleeping form.

John looked terrible.  His skin was an unhealthy grey color.  Tubes and wires connected him to various machines.  John looked tiny in the middle of it all.  Tiny and fragile.  Sherlock had seen more than his fair share of horrific things, but none compared to seeing John—his John—like this.

He pulled his coat tight around his body and heard the sound of paper rustling.  _John’s letter._   Gently, Sherlock pulled it from his pocket, took the paper from the envelope, and started to read.


	17. in which we learn the contents of John's letter

_Sherlock,_

_Christ, I don’t even know how to begin.  I’m sorry in advance for this.  I’m sure I’ll cock it up.  I find these things difficult.  But then, you know that, don’t you?  You know me._

_First, let me assure you that nothing in this letter is intended to be bad news, though I'm not sure how you’ll react.  I never can tell with you.  That’s why I’m writing it instead of telling you to your face.  Thought I’d give you a few days to see what you wanted to do about it.  If you want to do anything at all._

_But I’m getting ahead of myself._

_Sherlock, you’re my best friend.  You have saved me so many times, in so many ways.  I was alive when we met, but I wasn’t really living.  You changed that.  You changed_ me _.  You let me tag along on your case.  You let me feel useful again, even if I really wasn’t.  (Don’t argue.  I know I don’t contribute much to our cases.)  You gave me a home, a purpose.  Eventually, you let me see you: the man behind the mind._

_Not that there is anything wrong with your mind.  I love your mind.  It’s brilliant._

_But_ you _, Sherlock: the man, you are—there are no words.  You are everything.  Mad.  Flawed.  Brilliant.  Infuriating.  Annoying.  Frustrating.  Funny.  Fiercely protective.  Beautiful…_

_You are a lot of things, Sherlock.   Good and bad.  There are days where I can’t believe that I was lucky enough to have met you.  There are also days where I just want to strangle you.  I wouldn’t have it any other way._

_I love you, Sherlock._

_There it is.  My big secret.  Though, knowing you, it can’t have actually been that big of a secret.  None the less, I love you._

_I love you.  I love you.  I love you._

_So we’re perfectly clear, when I say "I love you", I don’t mean as my best friend.  Obviously, I love you like that too, but when I tell you that I love you, I mean it in a much deeper sense.  I’ve loved exactly one other person like this before: Mary._

_You see now, don’t you?  I hope so.  I don’t know how else to say it._

_I love you._

_I only realized it when we were walking to the crime scene with Nell.  You were holding her, answering all of those tedious questions, and it hit me: I am in love with Sherlock Holmes._

_I think I always have been._

_Once I finally realized it, it seemed so obvious.  Of_ course _I love you.  Who else could it be?  Yes, I loved Mary, but even then I think I knew—somewhere deep down—it was always supposed to be you._

_I wonder what our life would have been like if I had realized sooner.  Would I have told you?  Would you have turned me down gently, like that first night at Angelo’s?  Could you have possibly returned the sentiment?  Would we have been happy?_

_I don’t know.  I can’t know.  I don’t regret the things that have happened instead.  I don’t regret Mary.  She gave me exactly what I needed at that point in time.  She gave me hope.  She gave me love.  She gave me my beautiful, perfect daughter.  I like to think she knew you were my soulmate, though, in every sense of the word._

_I’m sorry.  I know you abhor sentiment, and here I am practically forcing it down your throat.  I don’t know how you’re going to react to this.  You may not feel anything like love toward me, and that’s fine.  That’s why I’m taking Nell on a little holiday.  Like I said, I wanted to give you the space to read this and decide what you want to do about it.  It’s in your hands now Sherlock.  What happens next is up to you.  If you find yourself able to return my feelings, we can talk about it when I come home.  We can figure out where to go from here._

_If you don’t—or can’t—return the sentiment, we can pretend this never happened.  Or we can talk about it, if you want.  If you need me to leave the flat, that’s fine too.  I’m not worried about this hurting our friendship anymore.  I wasted so much time being afraid.  I don’t want to waste any more.  I know that whatever happens, however you decide to react to this letter, it’s going to be okay.  It’s fine._

_It’s all fine._

_I love you, Sherlock._

_John Watson_


	18. in which Sherlock reacts to John's letter

Sherlock’s hands were shaking as he lowered the letter.  He couldn't believe it.  John loved him.  John was _in love_ with him.  The man he loved, loved him back.  And now he might die without knowing that his sentiment was returned.

Sherlock pulled the chair to the side of John’s bed.  He reached out and smoothed the short hair away from his friend’s forehead.  His heart clenched in his chest.

“John,” he whispered.  He grabbed onto his hand, carefully avoiding the tubes and wires.  “John, I need you to wake up.  You need to get through this.  Eleanor needs her father.  I’d be a rubbish guardian.  Two children supervising one another.  We’d destroy the flat, John.  You know that.  We need you home with us.  I need you.  I…I love you, John.  I need you to wake up so I can tell you properly.”

He ran his thumb across the back of his friend's limp hand.  He repeated a version of John’s long ago words.  “One more miracle, just for me.”

Sherlock rested his head on the edge of the bed.  One hand held John’s hand, the other gripped the letter.

He drifted to sleep listening to the heart monitor.  The steady beeping was proof that John—his John—was still alive.

Beep.  Beep.  Beep.  Beep.

_John.  John.  John.  John._


	19. in which John misinterprets the facts

John woke up with a groan.  He felt horrible.  The light filtering in through the large windows was blinding.  When he could finally see, the first thing he realized was that he was in a hospital bed.

The second thing he realized was that he was alone.

He tried to remember what had happened.  How had he ended up in hospital?  He remembered being livid at Sherlock for leaving him behind and attempting to catch a killer on his own.  He went to meet Sherlock and yelled at him for it.  Then they were chasing the murderer.

_Oh right._

He had been stabbed.  He should have died.  How had he survived?  He closed his eyes and thanked any god that might be listening that he had been allowed to live.  Maybe Sherlock had been right to leave him behind.

Sherlock.

Where was he?  Had he been to visit?  Had he made sure Nell was okay?

John stretched his arms out at his sides and felt his fingertips brush something.  He glanced down and saw a crumpled piece of paper.  Upon closer inspection, he saw that it was addressed to Sherlock.  In his handwriting.

The letter.

Sherlock had been there.  He had found the letter.  He had read it, decided he couldn’t deal with John’s sentiment, and returned the missive to him.  Crumpled.  The message was clear.

It was cruel, even for Sherlock.

John’s heart sank.  His cheeks were wet.  He realized he was crying.


	20. in which Sherlock clears up John's misunderstanding

Sherlock hurried down the hallway back to John’s room.  He hadn’t meant to fall asleep.  How was he going to be any good to John if he was asleep?  _What if John woke up?  What if John…didn’t wake up?_ Whatever happened, Sherlock needed to be awake and ready for it.  So he had gone to procure a cup of coffee.

As he walked through the doorway, he saw John’s hand moving to his face.

John was awake.

_John._

Sherlock dropped his cup.  Coffee spilled everywhere.  He barely noticed.  John was awake.  John was alive.  Nothing else mattered.

He closed the distance between them in three quick strides.  “John.”

John tried to turn his face away, but Sherlock stopped him.  He needed to look into his friend’s eyes.  He needed to be absolutely certain that John was alright.

He placed his hand gently on the older man’s cheek and turned his face back to him.  John stubbornly continued to avoid meeting Sherlock’s eyes.  His cheeks were wet.

_Tears.  John is crying.  John is hurting._

“You’re in pain.  I’ll get the nurse.” Sherlock made for the door, desperate to do something, anything, to make John feel better.

“Wait.” A weak voice called from behind him.

Sherlock froze.  He turned around slowly, unsure if he really heard John speak.  He walked back to the bed.  “What is it, John?  What can I do?”  His voice was more desperate that he had intended.  He couldn’t help it.  He _was_ desperate.  He just wanted to take John’s pain away.

John lifted his cupped hand to his lips.  He repeated the action before Sherlock understood that he was miming drinking.  He grabbed the water glass from the side table and helped John drink.

John cleared his throat.  Then he cleared it again.

Sherlock waited anxiously for him to speak.

“The letter?”  John looked at the crumpled paper instead of the detective.

Sherlock blinked in surprise.  That wasn’t what he was expecting.  He had forgotten about the letter when he saw that John was awake.  He looked down at it.  First he merely saw; then he observed.

_The paper is crumpled, as if it has been thoughtlessly tossed aside.  John’s tears.  John’s pain._   The pieces clicked into place.  _Oh._  

“No!  John, no!  I read it.  I…” he paused.  He wasn’t sure how to continue.  He wasn’t sure how to say it out loud, at least not with John actually listening.  Feelings weren’t his area.  There were so many ways to mess it up.  This was too important to risk mistakes.

John finally met his eyes, hope starting to creep into his expression.  In that moment, Sherlock knew what to do.  He leaned down and placed a soft kiss at the corner of John’s lips.  Before John had a chance to react, the detective pulled back just far enough to look the other man in the eye.

“Me too.” Sherlock whispered and leaned down once more, this time kissing John full on the mouth.


	21. in which John gets a pleasant surprise

John tried to think of a time in his life when he had been so perfectly happy.  He didn’t think such a time existed.  He had survived a wound that should have killed him.  He had a perfect, sweet, brilliant daughter.  He had a career he loved.  The deep love he felt for his best friend was requited.

Sherlock Holmes loved him.

The mad, genius, extraordinary detective loved plain, ordinary, nothing special John Watson.

Unless.

_Maybe I imagined the whole thing?  I’m pretty heavily drugged.  There’s no way Sherlock loves me back.  Sherlock doesn’t believe in sentiment.  And yet, he kissed me.  Didn’t he?_

Sherlock had kissed him.  Surely even John’s drug clouded mind couldn’t have imagined such a perfect, solid, _real_ kiss.  No, it had to have really happened.

Still, now that Sherlock was no longer in the room, it was harder to believe that the last few hours had been more than just a dream.  He shouldn’t have let the detective leave his side.  Doubts had filled the space left by his absence.

John’s phone buzzed.  It was Sherlock.

**Bringing you some clothes.  Also a surprise.  SH**

**What is it?  JW**

**A surprise, John.  SH**

A second later, another text came through.

**Obviously.  SH**

John rolled his eyes.

**A good one?  JW**

**Obvious.  SH**

**Give me a hint?  JW**

**It’s something you need right now.  Something you miss.  SH**

John hesitated for only a moment before typing his response.

**You?  JW**

Sherlock took so long to respond that John was beginning to regret sending the text.  Then finally, his phone buzzed again.

**I’m hardly a surprise.  That should be obvious, even to you.  SH**

John tried not to be offended by Sherlock’s words.  He failed.  

His phone buzzed again.

**Although, you are on a heavy dose of morphine.  I suppose some allowances must be made.  SH**

A pause.

**You miss me?  SH**

John grinned.

**Obviously.  JW**

**I’m almost there.  SH**

**Hurry, you insufferable git.  JW**

Another pause.

**I love you too.  SH**

John laughed.  He definitely hadn’t been dreaming.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, John heard Sherlock’s voice in the hallway.  He was speaking to someone, but John couldn’t hear the other voice.  Before he had the chance to wonder who it was, the detective walked into the room.  Nell was holding tight to his hand.

Her face lit up when she saw him.  “Daddy!”  she exclaimed and started to run to him.

“Eleanor, be careful.” Sherlock warned.

Immediately, Nell slowed.  She approached the side of the bed cautiously.  She paused and looked up at John, waiting for a sign that it was alright to touch him.

John reached out and pulled her onto the bed, holding her close.  She burrowed her head in his chest.  Neither said anything.  John stroked her golden curls, silently giving thanks that he had been allowed the opportunity to hold his daughter again.

He looked at Sherlock to thank him for thinking to bring Nell; for knowing he needed to see her.  The detective stood awkwardly by the door, uncertain if he should stay in the room or give the family some privacy.  He didn’t understand that he was part of the family too.

He always had been.

John held a hand out to him.  Sherlock looked relieved.  He walked to the bed and sank down into the chair.  John’s hand found his and held it tightly.  They were together at last.  A family.


	22. in which John and Sherlock go home

Eventually, John was found fit to return home.  Nell waited with Mrs Hudson at Baker Street while Sherlock went to collect him at the hospital.

The cab ride was quiet.  Comfortable.  John held on to Sherlock’s hand, unwilling to stop touching the detective now that he was finally allowed to.  Sherlock didn’t complain.

When they pulled up to their flat, Sherlock paid the cabbie and helped John out of the taxi.  As the car drove away, Nell ran outside.

“Daddy!” she cried and threw her small arms around John’s legs.  After a second, she released him and turned to Sherlock.  “Papa Sherly!” she exclaimed and hugged his legs as well.  Seconds later, she was running back inside, too excited to be still.

John smiled and shook his head.  He turned to Sherlock and saw that the detective hadn’t moved since Nell hugged him.  John frowned.  “Sherlock?”  No response.

Then he realized what Nell had said.  _Papa Sherly._   He studied his friend’s face carefully, unsure if Sherlock was merely surprised or if he was panicking.

“Sherlock?” he asked again, tentatively.

“Eleanor called me…”

“Papa Sherly.” John finished for him.

“Papa…” the word came out with a reverence John would not have expected from “married to my work, sentiment is a chemical defect” Sherlock Holmes.  Of course, many things had happened recently that he would not have expected from that Sherlock.

John chuckled.  “Well, you said it yourself.  She’s far more observant that most of Lestrade’s team and she’s not even four yet.”

“Papa,” Sherlock whispered again.

John laughed.  “Come on then, Papa Sherly.”  He reached up and kissed Sherlock firmly on the cheek.

“Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it was so long. I hope you enjoyed it though!


End file.
